The first meeting

The year was one the stars had long refused to speak of.

The sky over Velmora, a land carved by war and ruled by fire, was dyed a permanent crimson each dusk. Not by sun—but by smoke. The kind born from battles no one questioned anymore. Only one name echoed through its halls of power:

General Saryna Velka.

She stood tall on the palace balcony, dressed not in silks, but in obsidian-black armor lined with gold—a mark of command earned in blood. Her eyes, sharp as broken glass, scanned the training fields below. Men bowed when she passed. Even kings paused their tongues when she spoke. she knew how to tame those monsters.

“Where is Unit 31?” she asked, voice low, deadly.

A captain at her side stammered. “Arriving now, General.”

Among them marched Rivaan, newly transferred from the Northern Border, where frost bit harder than any blade. His presence was quiet—shoulders tense, jaw set, face unreadable. He moved like someone trained to kill, yet taught not to feel.

But when he looked up and saw her standing above—the woman whose name was etched into every war song and warning—he did something dangerous.

He felt.

Not admiration. Not fear. Something else. Something reckless.

Their eyes met. Hers narrowed.

“You’re late,” she said sharply as she descended the stone steps. “Name?”

“Rivaan Dros, General.”

She studied him for a beat longer than necessary. Reminding herself her position she straightened up yet now her voice cold and calculated.

“Dros... The boy from Frostbane.”

“Yes, General.”

“They say you held the line when your commander fled.”

“I followed orders until he broke them.”

Her lip twitched—almost approval, almost nothing or almost impressed.

“Then you’ll follow mine now.”

"Got that?"

Yes, General.

She smirked not showing clearly, yet one could see easily.

Good boy.

Saryna turned, her cloak sweeping the dust behind her as she strode across the training yard. Rivaan followed, silent but alert. Every movement of hers was calculated, deliberate — the kind of precision only earned from command, not taught in academies.

“You’ll serve in my primary guard until I decide if you’re worth more,” she said without glancing at him.

“Yes, General.”

“You speak as if carved from stone,” she muttered. “I prefer soldiers who bleed when they’re cut.”

“I bleed when ordered, General.”

That caught her attention. She stopped, turned, and studied him again — this time longer. There was no sarcasm in his tone, just brutal honesty, the kind that most men lacked and most leaders feared.

A small smirk rose to her lips.

“You’ll learn not to speak like that when the Council is around,” she said. “They don’t take well to men who think.”

“I don’t think, General,” he replied. “I obey.”

She didn’t smile. She didn’t frown either. It was the quiet between storms, the silence between drumbeats of war.

“Tomorrow,” she said, turning away again, “we ride for the Western Cliffs. A rebel faction’s made camp in the ruins of Valker’s Hold. They won’t expect us this early.”

He didn’t ask questions. Good. She hated when men questioned her strategy. Valker’s Hold was cursed — or so they said. A place where kings once fell, and generals vanished without a trace. But she didn’t fear curses. She had survived worse: betrayal, poison, love.

By nightfall, the camp was lit with fire pits, steel ringing against steel. Rivaan sat alone sharpening his blade while others laughed and drank. He didn’t belong, and he knew it. But that wasn’t new.

He wasn’t made for brotherhood. He was made for orders.

Across the courtyard, he saw her again — sitting at a table with scrolls and maps. Her face was illuminated by lantern-light. No crown on her head, yet she looked more royal than any monarch he had ever bowed to. Alone, always alone, even among her men. As if the position she held had stripped her of the right to rest.

He turned away — but not fast enough.

“Soldier,” her voice cut through the camp. “You keep watching me.”

He rose quickly, approaching her.

“I didn’t mean to, General.”

“Good. I don’t tolerate intentions.” She pushed a map toward him. “You’ve been to Valker’s Hold before?”

He nodded. “Years ago. The terrain’s cracked and hollow. Footing is dangerous near the eastern ridge.”

She nodded once. “Then you’ll ride ahead with me tomorrow. The others will flank from the southern woods. You will speak only when spoken to, and you will not die without permission. Understood?”

“Yes, General.”

She dismissed him without another word, already back to planning, already lost in wars that had not yet begun.

And as Rivaan returned to his seat near the fire, he didn’t feel warmth. Not from the flames, not from his body. Only a chill that ran deeper than the night — a chill born not from fear, but the feeling that the woman he would someday die for had already written his name into her end.

And maybe, just maybe —

he would take her down with him.

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